


Partners in Piracy

by tentativelyteal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aesthetics, Best Friends, Brunette and Blond, Childhood, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Fluff, John's Cane - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft The Kidnapper, Mycroft worries constantly, Mycroft's Umbrella, POV Mycroft Holmes, Poetry or Truth, Sherlock's pirate sword, Soulmates, The bravery of the soldier, Time to choose a side, William Sherlock Scott Holmes - Freeform, a good coat and a short friend, foresight, partners in crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 17:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11189577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentativelyteal/pseuds/tentativelyteal
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Mycroftmeddlessupplies Sherlockworriesconstantly. Who can blame him though? He has a little brother who once was as convinced about his destiny of becoming a pirate as that of having a best friend.A short fic where Mycroft takes a stroll down the memory lane back to when Sherlock was six and he himself had a fleeting moment of divine inspiration - yes, and he still scoffs at that. Until one day he does not.





	Partners in Piracy

**Author's Note:**

> Watch out! Here be ~~dragons~~ bees and (figurative) honey. So, I did some research on how to tell bees and wasps apart and I _hope_ that what I wrote is accurate - please don't set a hornet on me if it isn't though:) Hope you enjoy the read (the fluff!) and feel free to comment (they're what put the little glow in my heart)  <3

The greens and ochres of the fields flash by, with the daisies or daffodils in them trailing dainty tails across, incomprehensible as the train rushes forwards. _Much like Mrs. Pratt's nonsensical scrawls on the blackboard._ Suffocating a sigh, Mycroft Holmes anticipates the recommencement of boredom at Eton in three weeks' time. _Or, like the sparkles of pirates' booties, knowing William._ He notes wryly, glancing over to his little brother, who is not getting bored yet. Always a surprise, that. One should treasure these peaceful moments as they come. _As long as the bumpy racing speed fuels his fantasy of commandeering a pirate ship._ Mycroft tries to picture it: Captain William. Or will it be Captain Bill? Captain Sherlock? The said Captain who is currently only six years and two months old. And who, apparently, with a wooden sword swinging haphazardly in his right hand and a pirate hat, bright as night against his dark curls, is climbing on his seat with an air of cavalier valiance. _Oh Lord._

"William! You are not a pirate, sit down this instant! This is dangerous and very inappropriate. I _will_ tell Mummy." He frowns, trying to remember how Father looked when his brother had blown up another chemistry set in the kitchen last Tuesday.

William at least deigns to look down at him, still waving his sword, "but Myc! Why _can't_ I be a pirate? _Myc_ , look!" The boy performs a complicated gesture with the sword that, Mycroft supposes, is meant to be a flourish.

The older boy sighs. "For God's sake, just behave yourself." Fighting an urge to swipe his hand over his face, he returns to The Times.

Mycroft is not really surprised when his brother flops back down onto the seat, and huffs, just to be more dramatic than him. "You're _boring_ , and it's _disgusting_ ," he declares, pouting, "well, if i can't be a pirate, I'm going to live in London when I grow up."

Turning a page, the elder maintains a coolness he might not have felt. Yet. "As much grandeur as your idea contains, how are you going to sustain yourself, on your own, in London?"

"Don't be _stupid_ !" William looks outraged at the presumed thickness of his brother, whom he has always thought to be exceptionally clever. "Of course I won't be on my own. I'll have a friend _obviously_. My best friend, in fact." He grins, looking pleased with himself for having outwitted his brother this time.

Mycroft looks up sharply. There his brother sits, feet dangling off the floor, looking as if he had not just done something remarkable. _Well, except getting one over on me, probably. Or so he thinks._ The urge to protect his little brother, to warn him, to pass along Father's advice that has been tirelessly drilled into him grows stronger than ever, with each thump of his hear- no, with each passing thought, calculated with clarity, in his head. But there, there over the edge of his newspaper, he sees William's bright pair of eyes, guileless as each exhalation of the sea when a wisp of cirrus strolls past breezily, turning a pure silvery blue. And all he can manage, indeed all he devoutly wishes to say, is a soft concord, "yes, of course you'll have. How foolish of me."

But William has already turned to the window, the reflection of his eyes staring back at him as he stares at the bee - _or is it a wasp?_ \- that has caught his fancy. "William, do not open the window, it could be a wasp - "

"No, obviously it is a bee," the boy merely replies distractedly, still gazing intently at the bee's little dance, "I've read all about it! Look at the hair on its thorax and abdomen. Wasps are hairless. It could be any _apis_ species," he cocks his head wonderingly, "but seeing that we're in England, _apis mellifera_ , commonly known as the Western honey bee, is statistically more likely." Satisfied with his deductions, William grins brightly, and adding, as an afterthought, "plus, _apis mellifera_ looks much cuter."

Mycroft watches his brother rattle on about other species of bees, the newspaper half-forgotten, and wonders at his wild gesticulations, and the curls that seem to be leaping in spirited excitement. He considers for a moment, acknowledging that his brother, taller than average even by now, with his raven hair and almost luminescently pale skin, will make a fine figure in ten or twenty years' time. Elegant, yes, but also either too cutting or too brittle. For once, Mycroft Holmes indulges briefly in poetic fancies, and speculates. _Even just for aesthetics' sake, a shorter, sturdier silhouette at his side would cut the ideal image._ He squints, as a sudden ray of sunlight blinks through the glass, framing William in shadow for a second, then retreats behind some buildings again.

 _And blond._ Mycroft decides.

~*~*~*~

Mycroft Holmes, currently also known, by a selected few who have the required clearance, as the British government itself, stands in the middle of an empty warehouse, half leaning on his umbrella, right leg crossing his left. He has never been more grateful all his life than at this exact moment for the art of maintaining a cool face that he has long perfected, as the car door opens and closes, and the steady footfalls, accompanied by the staccato taps of a cane, echo in the cool damp air, coming closer and closer. For he could never have imagined, even given his unfailing talent at strategising, that he had got his predictions definitely, absolutely accurate. One hundred percent.

Short, sturdy, and blond. _Ah, maybe not the military stance, however._ Still, nice touch.

So he goes through the motions, intimidating the man whom he already knows will not be intimidated, and offering the meaningful sum of money he already knows will not be accepted.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson." And he swings his umbrella as how Sherlock once swang his wooden sword, when he was still little William, and saunters away. His shoulders feel much lighter than they have for ages.

 _Sherlock's side, of course._ Mycroft smiles, now that his back is to the interesting Doctor John H. Watson, satisfied with the turn of events. 

_They will be partners in piracy, naturally._

_Or crime._

_Urgh, whatever._


End file.
